


Thou Shall Not Tell Lies

by IcyPanther



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drugged Lance (Voltron), Gen, Hurt Lance (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron) Whump, Lance (Voltron) is a Ray of Sunshine, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Langst, Lips sewn shut, Mouth Sewn Shut, Outsider Persepctive, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, Tortured Lance (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPanther/pseuds/IcyPanther
Summary: The Paladins of Voltron were liars. They were liars who had murdered her family. She would silence them. She would make sure they never told another lie again. And she would start with this one, this one who appeared kind, appeared sweet and nice and honorable and ahero. She knew better. She caressed the needle in her hand as she gazed down at his face, at his lips where the poison spewed. She knew what a liar he was. And when she was done with him everyone else would know too.
Comments: 65
Kudos: 448





	Thou Shall Not Tell Lies

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline notes:** anytime later season four  
>  **Warning notes:** depictions of violence; nothing super graphic but still disturbing  
>  **Other notes:** from my zine, "A Collection of Langst" (Volume One)

Marlinda forced herself to keep her expression bright as the Paladin of Voltron chattered next to her, voice amicable and friendly and a smile on his face that hid the poisonous lies he spewed.

She hated him.

She hated him she hated him she hated him.

She hated all of them.

He continued talking, her marketwares for the day resting in his arms, going where she directed him to her home, situated up the hill because her dear Larion had so dearly loved the view overlooking their town.

She wondered if he was watching over her now.

She hoped so.

“Just here,” she said as the Paladin — Lance, he had introduced himself and she only remembered because it was nearly the name of her and Larion’s son, Lontz, and she hoped her son was watching too as she avenged him — paused for breath from whatever story he’d been prattling on.

She had stopped listening after he’d offered to accompany her home when her grocery bag had conveniently split and she, old and frail, had fallen to the ground to try and retrieve them well in sight of one of their visiting _heroes._

She scoffed at the word.

Lies.

All lies.

_Murderers._

That’s all these Paladins of Voltron were and everyone else was too blind to see it.

She’d make sure they knew.

She’d make sure they paid.

Starting with this one who would _not shut up._

She hated his voice.

Too sweet. Too kind. Too _nice._

He was not nice. 

He was a murderer.

He was a liar.

She would punish him.

“I am very lucky,” she interrupted him as he was talking again — something about the view and _how dare he how dare he_ — because she could not stand to hear him speak, “that you came along when you did.”

“I’m always happy to help,” the Paladin smiled at her, dark blue eyes nearly crinkling with the force of it. 

“Truly,” she said, unlatching the front garden gate, “so lucky.”

“You flatter me, ma’am,” he chuckled. “It’s just a few groceries.”

She didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

If she did she was not sure she could keep up appearances.

He was so close.

Almost there.

Into the house.

She opened the front door and headed for her kitchen, the reasonable place for groceries.

The Paladin followed.

Her face twisted with delight.

So close.

“Here,” she patted the table and puttered herself over to the cabinet to retrieve cups for tea and put on a kettle.

She heard the groceries thunk down, the Paladin let out a soft yelp as no doubt one of the rounded elpia fruits tried to roll off.

She turned to see him sheepishly stacking them all and he shot her an easy grin.

She physically forced herself to return it.

“I’d best be going, ma’am, my team—”

“Stay.”

It came out too brisk.

She swallowed and tried again. “Stay. Please,” the word was poison on her tongue. “For a cup of tea?”

“Well…” he shifted and she could see how he still hesitated. “I don’t want to intrude—”

“I get lonely.”

The admission was truthful and it hurt almost more than the lies he spewed.

Almost.

Nothing would hurt more than his lies.

His entire face softened.

“I can stay for a cup,” he inclined his head. “Thank you very much.”

“Go, sit,” she gestured to the small room right off the kitchen, a low couch and chair taking up most of it.

“Do you want any help?”

Help?

He offered her _help?_

He offered _help_ after all he and his Paladins had done? 

“No, I—”

She broke off.

Yes.

Oh, yes.

“My sewing basket on the table,” she said. “Can you pull out a spool of...” she looked at him, at the blue armor and blue eyes and made her decision, “blue thread? These hands,” she held them up, knobby with age and playing the role once more of helpless elder, “are not so good for small things.”

“Of course.”

He smiled again, that sick line.

When she was done he would never be able to do so again.

While he busied himself with that she turned to preparing the tea.

She’d brewed the drug, and given she was a skilled herbalist it was easy enough to do, not even a movement after word had come of her husband and son’s deaths. The village down below might blame the Galra, even have rallied even more to Voltron’s side, but she knew better.

She knew Voltron was to blame.

It was they who enticed her beloved husband, her dear son, to leave their families, leave _her,_ to go to war, to fight, when they knew nothing of such things. They might not be able to fight in battle, Lontz had told her, holding her hands tight, but they could still help the Coalition, could still drive supply ships and transports and bring the universe to peace and fight the Galra that way.

She had been proud.

And then they had died.

Their ship had been taken out by Galra forces before they could even clear the quadrant, the last transmission contact the sound of screams and gunfire before horrifying static and then silence.

Voltron had killed her husband. Her son.

They had lied.

They had promised to protect them. To save them.

They were liars.

They were murderers.

They spoke of protection but they had not protected her family.

They had led them to the slaughter.

They had killed them.

They were to blame.

And she would make it so they never poisoned the universe with their filthy lies again.

It was only a matter of time until she knew they visited her planet. They’d come to pay their respects to their fallen.

It made her sick.

She did not want their false words and promises.

She wanted them silenced.

She would silence them.

Starting with this loud, obnoxious, prattling one.

Marlinda’s hands shook as she poured the vial of amber colored brew into one of the cups.

Not from nerves.

Anticipation.

She was _excited._

It had been a while since she had felt such, not for nearly three phoebs, not since her life had shattered around her. While everyone, including her daughter-in-law and grandson, may have been able to move on, to be _proud_ somehow of the senseless death, she was not.

But this…

This would help.

This would save the world from Voltron’s lies.

She lifted the kettle and poured the water through the strainer, the drugged cup hiding her intentions perfectly.

She gathered the cups onto a tray along with some sugar and lechae nut milk and shuffled into the sitting room where the Paladin had taken a seat on the couch.

Perfect.

“You had a lot of blue,” he smiled, “so I picked my favorite, if that’s all right.”

He held up a spool of a darker shade but still bright.

It matched his eyes.

She loved it.

She inclined her head and handed him a cup of tea that he took with a chirped thanks.

He didn’t drink it.

She tried not to stare.

“What are you working on?” he asked, cocking his head with a boyish charm.

She hated it.

She hated him.

She hated him so much.

Her cup rattled on her saucer and she struggled to hold it steady.

“A… a special project,” she managed. “For… for my son.”

“Aww, he’ll love it.”

She smiled herself.

Yes.

Yes he would.

“My _abuela_ knits,” he told her like she cared. “She made me my first quilt — I collect them, they’re so cozy, you know? — and she was teaching me before…” his expression flickered ever so, “well, before I ended up in space.”

He took a sip of his tea with a sad sort of laugh that she delighted in.

She watched intently as he drank it, smirking behind her own cup as his eyes widened at no doubt the bitter taste of the drug.

“That’s… that’s something,” he coughed, putting the cup back in the saucer. 

“Please,” she even meant it this time as she gestured to the tray of offerings, “adjust it to your liking.”

He smiled and nodded. “You drink it black, huh? So does my friend Pidge. She’s a little intense like that though. Me, I’m a cream and sugar guy,” and she could see that as he poured a hearty amount of both into his brew.

He tried it again and while she could see it wasn’t still quite to his tastes — it was to hers though — he took another sip and another.

Even now he lied.

Liar.

Murderer.

On his fourth sip that drained the cup she saw his hand shake ever so as he put it down.

Yes.

Finally.

“So…” he glanced about the room, eyes landing on the framed portraits of her family placed in reverence on the high mantle as he slumped ever so on the couch. “You and your, your husband live here?”

He frowned a moment at the slip of his tongue.

She didn’t let him dwell on it, as the drug began its work.

She couldn’t let him leave yet.

She had to keep him here.

“He did. He died.”

She didn’t say how.

But he didn’t just die.

He was _murdered._

By the person sitting in front of her.

“Oh,” his expression turned contrite. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Sorry?

He was sorry?

Not yet he was not.

She managed a nod.

He seemed to be at a loss for what to say then, but she knew it wasn’t because he had run out of words as the knit of his brow indicated his confusion. The drug slowed the mind, dulled the senses.

“I…” he went to stand but she saw how his hands and arms didn’t respond to him.

She saw a flicker of puzzlement cross his face.

“I should…”

He tried again but his body was shutting down, limbs growing heavy.

The confusion trickled to a flash of fear and he glanced down at his body and then his eyes slowly shifted to the tea.

He stiffened. 

Those blue eyes lifted to her then, fear and bewilderment and now the slightest haze beginning to cloud them.

“You say you are sorry,” she said, voice stronger than it had been this entire time and those orbs widened as she leaned forward, nearly nose to nose with him, boring her gaze into his and drinking up the delicious fear. 

She reached forward, one knobby hand tracing his cheek and she felt him tremble at her touch, heard the little breathless gasp even as his eyes began to flutter closed.

“But you are not sorry enough,” she dug her nails into his flesh and the gasp turned to a moan. “Now though...” she let out a soft laugh. “Now you will be.”

xxx

Marlinda had the Paladin prepped in under fifteen dobashes. She’d maneuvered him from his slumped sit to lie on the couch, tugging and pulling on his feet after she’d removed pieces of his armor to make him lighter. Without it he was manageable, even if he was long in limb.

Said limbs had been bound tight with scarves, wrapped all around his chest, arms, hands, legs and feet, and another across his forehead and neck to keep him from moving too much, and those in turn had been threaded and tied down to the couch.

When he came to, and she could not wait, he was not going anywhere.

He was as helpless as her husband and son trapped aboard that cargo ship.

The drug was not deadly, not in the quantity she had given him, but it was enough to subdue him for a while, to make him weak and sluggish even when he awoke although he would be aware enough.

She needed him to _understand_ how wrong he was, how cruel.

She wanted him to _suffer._

She tapped his cheek again, smooth and unblemished, and he let out a soft moan, little breath of air escaping from parted lips.

“Wake up,” she commanded, harsh now, and no need to hide behind false pleasantries.

She was done waiting.

She had waited long enough.

She struck him then and his head jerked some in the restraints but did not go far.

Hazy blue eyes flew open though and while the drug kept them dull she saw realization filter in and with it…

With it came fear.

Good.

It grew as he tried to move but found his limbs both bound and heavy.

“Wha'…?” the word came out a slur.

She slapped him again to shut him up.

“Shut up,” she snapped just in case it wasn’t clear. “Shut up.”

He didn’t speak.

She did.

“You are a liar,” she punctuated it a stab of her finger into his cheek. “A murderer.”

His lips parted to respond.

“Shut up,” and she slapped him again.

His cheek was turning a pretty red.

She wondered if his blood was the same.

She was about to find out.

“Liars must be punished,” she told him. “They must be silenced. You,” she leaned forward, breath fanning his face, “will never tell a lie again. And I will make it so.”

She sat back then and picked up her needle.

It was a long one, thick.

It would hurt.

It would hurt so much and she couldn’t wait to hear him scream.

She held it aloft so he could see it, held up the spool of thread he had selected for her just a bit ago.

She could taste his fear as even muddled from the drug he put the pieces together.

“Pl-please,” he gasped the word out and she was almost impressed he managed that. “Wh-why…?”

Why?

_Why?_

He dared to ask _why?_ As if he didn’t _know?_

She slapped him and he made a little choking noise.

“I told you to be quiet.”

She couldn’t wait to shut him up permanently.

She threaded the needle, well aware of his eyes, pinpricked now, staring at it.

“Please,” he tried again. 

She’d had enough.

And now she was finally ready.

She leaned forward in answer, left hand going to pinch his lips together starting on the right side of his mouth.

He weakly tried to turn his head but she _squeezed_ and he moaned again.

She lifted the needle with her other.

And stabbed it into the flesh just below his bottom lip.

He _jerked_ but her restraints held fast and her hand pressing against his mouth kept him from turning away from her.

She’d dealt with plenty of finicky patients before, back when she used to assist the town doctor. 

Stitches were her specialty.

She didn’t pause except to reangle the needle before she stuck it through his bottom lip and out, angling it through the top one.

He _screamed,_ or whatever that strangled high pitched yell could be called that got stuck in his throat as she kept his mouth pinched shut.

It would only grow more painful as soon any attempt to do so would pull at his new sutures. 

She hoped he kept trying.

She pierced the flesh just above his mouth and pulled the entire thing tight. 

One stitch done.

About… fifteen more to go.

Nice and tight.

Nice and clean.

In and out.

And, she smiled, his blood was red as she had hoped.

It went well against his skin.

She smeared it with her thumb, red dark on her own pale yellow.

Pretty.

She’d like to see more.

She began the next stitch.

The Paladin kept trying to speak to her, she could feel his tongue clicking behind his teeth, his lips pursing beneath her hold.

It made her want to go faster.

She didn’t want to hear his voice ever again.

On the third line she paused as he made a different sort of noise.

A sniffle.

She looked up from his mouth to observe that tears were beading along his eyes and a single drop was starting to descend on his cheek.

The sight made her angry.

She stabbed the needle through the tear drop.

Blood immediately pooled to drip down with the tear and he let out a muffled cry, eyes squeezing shut.

She went back to work.

She hummed as she did so, the old lullaby she used to sing Lontz to sleep with.

The Paladin continued to cry.

It made his entire body tremble, little tiny shakes against the sluggishness of the drug, but it was stronger than him.

He was weak.

All liars were. 

“Shut up,” she told him, stabbing with as much force as she could as she reached halfway, watching his larger bottom lip well with crimson. 

He let out another choked scream, shaking and crying.

She hated the sound of his crying.

Pathetic.

Her husband and son hadn’t cried.

Neither should he.

He should be the one who had died.

“You’re a liar,” she told him again.

She punctuated each stitch with an iteration of it.

“You will not tell lies.”

“You will never tell lies again.”

“You are a murderer.”

“You are a liar.”

She wanted to sew her words into him as much as the thread.

He’d stopped trying to talk now although the tears were coming harder and faster and he was making pathetic little noises in the back of his throat.

She both hated and loved them.

They weren’t screams, but he was in pain.

He was suffering.

He would still never suffer enough.

None of them would.

She was pulling on the last stitch when she heard her front door open.

“Gran?” came a high-pitched voice and she relaxed.

Her dear grandson, Norin, almost eight deca-phoebs old.

She loved him so.

He looked so much like his father.

“Gran, are you home?”

“In here, sweetie,” she called.

She couldn’t wait to show him.

She glanced back down to her work, pride welling in her chest.

Perfect.

The Paladin’s eyes were half-lidded, hazy with pain, but it was his mouth she smiled wide at.

Perfect, even blue stitches all up and down, sealing the lies forevermore inside, with red accents bubbling up where the needle had pierced.

Perfect.

She patted his cheek, smearing blood and tears, and he barely twitched.

He’d stopped making the crying noises on stitch twelve, had gone limp. She knew he was awake as he continued to shed tears. She hoped he was reflecting on what she had said.

How wrong he was, how much he had lied, how much he had hurt others.

“Gran, were you coming to the ceremony? It’s about to start even though the Red Palad—”

Her grandson had appeared in the entryway off the kitchen and stopped short.

She felt the Paladin stiffen under her hand.

“Gran,” Norin’s voice wavered. “Gran, wh-what are you…?”

The Paladin let out a barely audible moan.

Marlinda slapped. “Shut up.”

She turned and smiled at Norin. “Not you, sweetie. Please, come here. I want to show you my special project.”

He did not move.

“Norin, come,” she patted the couch next to the Paladin’s bound legs. “He can’t hurt you, sweetie. It’s okay. Come see what I made for your father.”

Norin pulled himself off the doorframe…

And then turned and ran.

She blinked after him.

And then she looked down at the Paladin, whose chest was heaving in the black skintight suit and his eyes were wide and while there was still fear there was something else.

Hope.

She _screamed._

“You!” she snarled.

He had turned her grandson against her.

He had poisoned him with his lies.

She had been too late.

She let out another scream of rage and picked back up her needle.

The Paladin’s eyes widened.

“Liar!” she howled.

She stabbed it into his chest.

He jerked.

“Liar! Liar! Liar!”

She plunged the needle in and out of him. Chest. Arms. Stomach. 

Crimson splattered his face. 

It coated his chin as he tried to scream, pulling on tight stitches and only hurting himself more.

Not enough.

It wasn’t enough.

She looked at the slender throat, the pulse beating in it.

There.

She’d thought she could silence him, thought that would make it better.

Not enough.

There was only one way to truly stop his lies.

Her own pulse roared in her ears as she stared down at him, delight and horror and anger warring in her chest as he looked at her, so hurt, so scared.

So _young_.

She didn’t care.

He was a liar.

Liars needed to be silenced.

_Permanently._

She raised the needle. 

Her arm shook.

And then all of her did as her door was _slammed_ open and heavy footsteps rattled the floor.

She glanced over her shoulder at who _dared_ hurt her home like such.

And she was bowled over by a blur of screaming white and green.

There was so much shouting then, she heard her name, someone else crying out “Lance!” and another “Pidge!” and there were more hands, four-fingered like her own on her and she went with them, her people.

They would see now.

They would understand.

But as she was freed from the Paladin’s hold it was to see only horror in matching slanted eyes.

“Marlinda?” whispered her neighbor. “What have you done?”

“He’s a liar,” she told him. “A liar. He lies. They all lie. I silenced him. He won’t lie anymore. He won’t hurt us anymore. _”_

They did not release her.

Their grips tightened.

“Let me go!” she demanded as the hauled her off the floor. “Let me go!” she screamed it as they did not. 

Next to her she saw another Paladin, this one in yellow, slicing through the scarves holding her Paladin to the couch, indistinguishable words falling from his mouth.

She knew they were lies.

He was lifting the Paladin up now, cradling him in his arms.

No one stopped him.

“No!” she screeched, writhing in the grip. “No! Stop! Stop! He is a liar! He needs silenced! They all need silenced!”

“Go,” she heard another of her kind speak, voice low and urgent. “Hurry.”

“No!” she could feel tears pouring down her cheeks now as no one stopped them, the Green Paladin leading the way as they went for the front door.

She caught a last glimpse of him, blood-stained face and sewn lips, but his bright eyes had lost the fear.

Now they were filled with pity.

And then they were gone.

She _screamed_ again.

They didn’t understand.

They didn’t understand they didn’t understand they didn’t understand.

How could they not understand?

“He is a _liar!”_ she screamed. “He’s a liar! He must not tell lies!”

No one answered her.

They were not listening.

They had been poisoned too.

“No!” she wailed. “No! They are liars! They are liars! They _lie!”_

She slumped in the hold, screams fading to a whisper.

“They are liars.”

She choked on a sob.

They were liars. 

They were liars.

Only she knew the truth.

And…

And she was the only one who would ever know. 

**Author's Note:**

> The other fanfic from my "A Collection of Langst Volume One" zine published last spring. Mouth stitched shut is one of my favorite tropes and add that to writing a delicious psychotic character and this is a personal favorite fic of mine.
> 
> If you're feeling kind and have a moment after taking the time to read the story I'd love to hear from you in the comments below. Thank you very much to those who take the time to do so, it means a lot ♥


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